


The Assassin's Past

by Brat2001



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Original Work
Genre: AU, Assassin - Freeform, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 08:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5961106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brat2001/pseuds/Brat2001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slightly abusive past can lead to terrible choices... and a terrible future. How a single person can change someone's whole life- from bad to better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Assassin's Past

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that this might be slightly triggering to some people. 
> 
> It was written for a school project and a few of my friends suggested I post it. Enjoy...or don't.
> 
> Not finished typing it up.
> 
> If you have any suggestions for where it should go, please let me know. Ideas, no matter how silly they may seem are always welcome.

  
Silence. Padding footsteps, my footsteps, broke the fragile silence. Trying to hide them would be pointless as my senses were heightened. I would hear them even if others wouldn't be able to. Jet black hair, the reason for the name I chose, hunt over my gaunt face. The hair reached my waist and made me look slightly feminine, enough that I had been mistaken as one every time I left in daylight. Red streaks, the colour of fresh blood enhanced the darkness, seeming to glow bright and fiery.  
Emerald green eyes were piercing the haunting darkness, adjusted and able to see in extreme detail; no-one had invaded my territory. Indeed, few would after the last one stupid enough to do so turned up in pieces. A menacing, evil smirk crossed my face… Black clothes, trimmed in the same blood red as my hair, were loose on my tiny frame, concealing but defining what needed to be defined. My posture just screamed threat and the boots I wore only emphasised it all the more. They were black riding boots with a few ‘edits’ made to them. Blades. Incredibly sharp, gleaming, silver blades, which could be deployed with a specific movement with my feet.  
Merciless, menacing and mocking, this pretty much summed me up, I was deadly. Perceptive and cunning as well and I carried weapons. However, if you take away my swords, throwing knives, daggers and whip and I would still be a weapon. My very body is a weapon. Pain didn’t faze me in the slightest, my pain threshold like that of the world’s most intense masochist. Employers tended to be intimidated by my mere presence, the scars that visibly covered my entire body a huge factor in this. Not all of the scars that littered every inch of my skin were from the job, in fact, most of them had nothing to do with the job at all. Huge scars marred my back, safely hidden and one, a knife wound, ran down my face. In full view, this one gleamed in the light, the reason for my preference of going out at night.  
The latest target was David Cameron and I knew for a fact he was eligible for my services, purely because he was corrupt and destroying the country from the inside out. Targets have to be adults and they have to have done something that is against the law in order for me to even contemplate agreeing to kill them.  
Currently, I was perched on a wall, watching the dark house of my new victim, checking for cameras. Spotting one I swiftly dismantled it, putting it on a loop for the next three days. They wouldn't catch me now. Leather gloves, also black, covered my hands to prevent any fingerprints. Certain there were no more cameras, I jumped down.  
I landed in a crouch, the flowerbed showing no footprints due to my being severely underweight, once weight was lost it was hard to regain. To ensure no trace remained I spun in circles obscuring any prints that have been created. Once positive their was no way to identify footprints, I turned around and peered through the window... And froze.

Chapter 2: Oh no... 

 

What is going on?

Frozen, I stared through the window, in overwhelming shock. David Cameron, my target had his son groveling at his feet, and the teenager was covered in blood. Feelings of horror and familiarity overtook me, and I was flung back into the painful past.

*Flashback*

Abhorrent and vile, the man I am supposed to call 'Uncle' towered over me by at least a head. The days chores were nearly complete, I only had to clean the bathroom and the jobs may have earned me the scraps that usually went to the birds. I was fed once a day with a piece if bread that me pitiful excuse of a family claimed was 'all we can afford' whilst they pigged out on huge meals, each enough to feed about three people. However, like he had sensed my joy, my 'Uncle' had arrived home early, knowing that I wouldn't have had time to finish the chores, he had just grabbed me and dragged me unwillingly to my 'room'.  
The blood-covered room was where I received punishments for anything and everything. Whips and knives of varying sizes were Lent against the stained, once white wall, menacing and unmerciful. The bath tub in the far corner was only connected to the main water supply, ice cold water the only type available, and, next to it, was a container of cooking salt. It was cheap, but no less painful.  
Quickly, my guardian dragged me over to the middle of the wall opposite the bath, securing my wrists to the set of manacles that hung over a low beam, hooked to the wall at just below his head height. My hands were above my head, preventing me from doing anything to stop him as he ripped off my t-shirt, revealing a back covered in scars and welts. There would soon be no skin unmarred by the marks of my ‘uncle’s’ cruelty.  
Clothing was precious as I very rarely received a set, I would get a new set once a month if i was lucky and i had only received this set a week ago. Any time the clothing was damaged the chores list would be doubled, with petty tasks that were time consuming and entirely unnecessary. All this to get back to me of course. If it was him that destroyed them, normally in the room i had taken to calling the red room, punishments would, of course be delivered to me for ‘damaging his property’. The t-shirt that had been ripped off him would simply lengthen his torture.  
‘Crack’ went the whip as it came down on my back, a terrible, continuous cacophony of noise as it joined the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. Each strike caused an extreme, stinging, fiery pain.  
Minutes that seemed like hours, passed, and passed until finally, thankfully he grew bored of using the whip and getting the same reaction with each strike. Forty-five minutes had passed, the strikes getting more and more intense as they crossed previous lashes.  
Bored of the whip, he decided to change weapon and perused the different knives trying to decide which one to use. Eventually he came to a decision picking a medium length, serrated knife, testing it on the little skin there was covering my ribs, which protruded from my sides. Once sure of his decision, he went wild, slashing my arms, torso and, after careful consideration, through my trousers and into the flesh of my legs. Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse, the knives or the whips, but right then, I would have done anything for him to stop tearing into my flesh.  
Twenty minutes later, now finished with the knife, my ‘uncle’ looked me over carefully. It was now impossible to see my skin for blood, and the rags that i had for trousers were soaked in the crimson liquid. Taking in the grim sight, he grinned. It wasn’t a nice grin, it was decidedly bloodthirsty, filled with perverse satisfaction at the sight of his charge’s body soaked in his own blood.  
Then came the dreaded words. “Bath time.” The voice he used was sing-song and sickly sweet, knowing that this would cause just as much, if not more pain than the earlier thrashing and the knifing added together.  
The mentally disturbed man strode to the bath, the ground shaking with every step, and turned on the faucet, ice cold water pouring into the bath, cold enough to have condensation forming on the outside of the bath tub. The next thing my ‘uncle’ did was grab the container of cooking salt and pour a good amount into the bath. The amount added was enough, he knew from experience, to cause excruciating agony and slightly slow down the healing process.  
Once the bath was full enough, he turned off the tap and stomped his way back over to me. Sneering at my bloodied body, he detached the chains from the wall, allowing me to stand unbound for the first time in over an hour and a quarter. It didn’t last for long, blood-loss enough to be disorientating, causing me to lose my balance and fall to the floor. Laughing at my pitiful attempts to stand up, laughing at my weakness he grabbed the binding and dragged me a little bit of the way, towards the discarded whip that lay in the centre of the room. My back left a trail of blood, something I knew I would have to clean up later. “Stand up!” he snarled, sending terror sparking down my mangled back and making my legs feel numb.  
Shakily, I stood, blood running in streams as pain caused my vision to swim. Swaying was inevitable and my ‘uncle’, laughing like the demented pig he was, walked the last metre back towards me. His looming presence was not helping in the slightest as I hyperventilated, trembling in pure fear as he stopped less than a metre away. Careful not to touch me in any way, likely to prevent dirtying his clothes, the violent, hulking man unhooked the chains attached to the manacles, simply leaving the bands and dragged me towards the bath in the corner of the room. He used his superior size and my instincts against me, intimidating me until I stumbled back and fell over the edge of the bath directly into the merciless cold of the salt water. At first, the pain was numbed by the cold that seemed to reached my very bones. Struggling to get my head above the water kept me sufficiently distracted for a while. Then, nerves began screaming. Distantly, I noticed strong hands grabbing my flailing wrists, hooking chains to the manacles, preventing me escaping. The next vaguely coherent thought was that someone was screaming. It took a while longer for me to realise that it was me that was screaming, desperate, haunting screams of pure agony.  
Seeming to realise that I wasn’t going to be very coherent for a while, the watching man secured my ankles into the cuffs at the end of the bath. Stepping back, he gave me a malicious grin before growling a “Shut up.” at me in annoyance. Almost immediately I did, fear rendering me mute.  
Lethargic now, the immense blood-loss and shock finally catching up to me I barely struggled when he took hold of my hair and held my head under the water. Lungs burning with the need for oxygen; not able to gain any... Pain. Passing out would be deadly, but not entirely unwelcome. The pain was insistent, overwhelming the barriers i had created to keep it at bay...

*Flashback Over*

Wait. I didn’t have any wounds. My so called ‘uncle’ was dead, i made sure of it. Personally.

I snapped out of it. Coming back to myself was horrendous. I was broken. Unfix-able. Damaged. No-one could help me. Depression hung over my head, thoughts in turmoil. No-one should have to live through anything like I had to, it had affected my entire life, been the basis of my life’s choices, it was the reason I seriously considered suicide almost every night. I had killed my ‘uncle’ when he had attempted to rape me and I now had the opportunity to save another from a similar fate. Instincts you gain from being abused are hard to hide. I know from experience that it takes a while and a trusted individual to stop flinching every time someone gets annoyed at you or raises a hand. There and then I found a reason to continue living. I would help him. I would build a life for us and protect him and any others I find in similar situations. I would protect them with my life if necessary.  
Eyes of fiery fury and a heart of ice, I stare through the window, enraged and ready to kill. The life of the target was insignificant. I would feel no regret over his demise.  
Within the next ten minutes i had secured the house, no-one could get in without my say-so. Perched on the window sill of the upstairs window, i cautiously broke the flimsy lock. The room beyond was obviously the son’s room because the bed was soaked with old blood and the door had a lock on the outside  
Downstairs the sounds of a belt striking flesh stopped. Moving silently, i crept down the stairs, peering around carefully and making sure that no-one else was present in the house. Reaching the door to the room containing David Cameron, and his son, i glanced around the door frame and listened in horror to the verbal abuse being shouted at the prone figure laying curled up at the feet of his father. Scars and welts covered the boy’s back, small pained whimpers left the horrifically mutilated teenager, pitiful and heart wrenching. The target showed no remorse in either body language or the harsh kick he delivered to the fifteen year old’s ribs.  
Loosing my temper, i burst into the room...  
Vengeful and after blood, Cameron’s blood, i swiftly incapacitated him, tying his hands together, and relieving him of the blood covered belt. Ignoring his struggling i stabbed him several times in unimportant spots, ones that wouldn’t kill, just cause pain. Eventually getting bored, i stabbed him through the belly and left him to die in a pool of blood, removing the blade and wiping it off on his shirt.  
The person who had employed my services had requested that he die a painful, drawn out death and that was exactly what they got. Normally i would ignore requests like this and kill quickly and cleanly, but abusers received different treatment. Taking a photo as evidence, i turned my attention to the small teenager at my feet. Now unconscious, he looked, even in sleep fearful and pained.  
Knowing only too well how much pain he would be in, i gently scooped him up, stepping over the slightly mangled form of David Cameron and started the journey back to my alley-way, where i would be able to treat his wounds and hopefully, start the long arduous task of gaining his trust.


End file.
